


Who Needs Traditional?

by mother_finch



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: F/F, Gen, mother-finch fiction
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-21
Updated: 2015-05-21
Packaged: 2018-03-31 13:07:06
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,332
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3979162
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mother_finch/pseuds/mother_finch
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>PROMPT: Shoot prompt: Shaw proposes to Root but things never go the way she plans (like a nice dinner etc) so she just has to do it Shaw style. AHHAH. And thanks for writing everything else so far. I've enjoyed all your writing pieces. :)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Who Needs Traditional?

_This is it. Here we go._

Shaw had never felt like this.  _This… This… What is this?_  It’s the anticipation that makes your fingers tremble; the nervousness that drowns your thoughts with train whistles and fog horns; it’s the excitement of jumping from a plane, not knowing if your parachute will spring free or stay closed; the surging adrenaline that makes your heart burst. Shaw didn’t know what this was, it was something alien to her entirely. She isn’t sure if she likes it or not.

_This is it. Here we go._

“Can you tell me  _now_?” Root asks, curiosity rising by the minute. They walk into a fairly nice restaurant, lights dimmed for the non-existent night crowd, and the wonderful smells of fresh bread and warm plates waft through the air. The entire ride Shaw had stayed silent, and Root tagged along, heart begging to ask questions, but mind telling her it wasn’t time yet. But now, standing in this place, her heart won out.

“Just dinner,” Shaw tells her, putting up a measly diversion. Her mind is too preoccupied on this feeling, and putting a name to it.  _Things were simpler without her, there was never anything to feel._  But now, there is, and she wouldn’t trade it for the world- whether she’d admit that or not.

The restaurant is fairly empty- only a couple to their left and a lonesome man at the far booth- and Shaw lets her eyes adjust to the darker lighting, trying to find a place to sit. A place out of sight, out of the way of a distraction.

Shaw had been planning this for a while, the details had changed but the main idea was the same: take her to dinner and propose. The thought of it sends leaves fluttering about in her stomach as if it were a windy fall day. She’d been waiting graciously but impatiently for weeks to find a time where they were not busy. And finally, it had come to her.

_This is it. Here we go._

* * *

 

She spots a booth at the far back corner of the restaurant, and- grabbing Root’s hand- leads her that way. Root holds her breath, never getting used to the overwhelming thrill that washes over her at Shaw’s every touch. They sit across from each other, and Shaw’s fingers fidget along the table, hands making like clockwork a path to her pocket and back.

“Sam… are you okay?” Shaw looks up, distant eyes focusing in on Root’s concerned face. Shaw nods without a smile, her entire body feeling like lead. Now, so close to this singular moment, her limbs decide to take a vacation. She feels like a marionette whose puppeteer quit just before the show.  _Is this what it feels like to have cold feet?_ Shaw asks herself, another foreign emotion wrought over her tonight. Her throat feels hard, and it’s painful to swallow, but she manages along without the slightest acknowledgement in her features. She is more of a statue than ever before.

“Is something wrong?” Root’s words are muffled by pillows and cotton, reaching Shaw’s ears as no more than barely audible radio static. Her mind is on overdrive, straining in vain to sort her jumbled thoughts out, and her fingers dance across the table to a sped up rhythm only she can hear.

Root grabs Shaw’s hands from across the table and she stops. Everything stops. The screaming thoughts go quiet, and the trembling nerves halt in their tracks. Her hands go limp in Root’s; even Shaw’s lungs seem to have paused. Then, her gears begin to turn once more, and she lets out the breath she’d been holding. Root looks at her expectantly.

“What?” Shaw asks, slightly defensive. Her eyes flicker down to their hands, and a tingling electricity shoots through her heart, but the rest of her is too serious to smile.

“I asked if something was wrong.”

“No.”

“Is there anything you want to tell me?”

 _Yes_ , Shaw thinks, thinks it a million times over.  _There is something I need you to hear._ Slowly, as if half of her is ready and the other is not, her head dips and bobs in a slackened nod. Root’s eyes spark, attention pulled and nervous, expecting an assortment of bad news.

“So, uh,  _Root_ ,” Shaw trips over all the suave lines she had planed, feeling them backed up like a train wreck in her throat, and she gives a silent cough. Words had always come easy to her- every lie and snide remark rolling off her tongue effortlessly- but this wasn’t that. This is emotions, something Shaw’s mouth never knew how to voice. “Well, I have a question for you, actually.”

“Alright.”

 _This is it; this is it._  The three words chant over and over to the beat of her heart, growing into a senseless buzz as her pulse becomes wild.

“I-”

Root’s phone begins to vibrate rambunctiously across the table, and both their eyes flicker towards it.

_Harold Finch._

Shaw’s lip curls up in annoyance, and she tries to block out the deafening sound.  _I told him,_  she seethes heatedly to herself.  _I told them all to not bother us tonight. Just for one night._ Shaw was sure they could pick out the reason why, Harold especially.  _Rat bastard caught me off guard_ , Shaw remembers with chagrin anger. She’d been pacing back and forth in the subway car, muttering out lines and ideas to say to tie it all back into the question. And most importantly, how to say the question itself. She’d thought she was alone- she was mistaken.

_Why the Hell is he calling?_

Just then, Shaw can hear a screeching ringtone play out from her pocket. The women share looks; Root’s apologetic and Shaw’s miffed. Reluctantly, Root slips her hands away from Shaw’s, and both reach to their phones. Shaw turns sideways in the booth, legs draping over the edge, and she sees the caller ID.

_John Reese._

With a hot-tempered sigh, Shaw slides the answer button and slams it up to her ear.

“What the f-”

“Sorry to interrupt your plans, Shaw,” John’s voice is sincere, as if he truly was sorry to be doing this. That single thread keeps Shaw quiet- for the moment. “But we have a bit of a doozy on our hands.”

“What  _kind_  of doozy,” Shaw spits harshly, not wanting to know, but wanting to know at the same time.

“I’m sure Harold is filling Root in as we speak,” John replies, and Shaw deflates in one exasperated sigh. “He’s sorry, too,” John adds. “We held off as long as we could, but-”

“It’s fine,” Shaw cuts him off, fingers finding her temple. She can feel a headache coming on and closes her eyes. “We’ll be there-  _wherever_ \- as soon as we can.” With that, she hangs up, and sees Root signing off as well. When she looks back up to Shaw, a sweet affection washes over her face.

“Guess we’ll have to wait,” Root says, absolutely oblivious, and stows her phone away. “Harold says we’re gonna have a fun night ahead.”

 _Oh, I bet_ , Shaw thinks, anger flaring back up within her as she follows Root from the booth. _It’ll be a good time alright, especially if I shoot him in the other knee._

_____\ If Your Number’s Up /_____

As Harold had promised, the night went rather well.  _And if by rather well, you mean guns, knives, and near death encounters,_ Shaw thinks while walking about the station,  _then it was splendid._  It had been a week since their interrupted dinner, and there hadn’t been a single dull moment since. Shaw could feel her fingers wrapping around the trim of her jacket, impatience getting the better of her, the velvet pouch burning a hole in her pocket. She can feel the determination sinking in, and her eyes set on something distant.  _Today is the day. I’m sure of it._

Shaw stops her senseless pacing, an idea hitting her with the force of a freight train. Quickly, she tears her phone from her pocket, swiping it unlocked and pulling up a message box.

Me: Meet me at Central Park. Ten minutes.

Shaw taps her foot impatiently, nerves eating away at her stomach. A minute that feels like an eternity passes, and her phone buzzes.

Root: Okay.

Stuffing the cell back into her jacket, she heads out of the station, fingers dancing along the pouch, clutching it and setting it free. She walks briskly and with purpose, feeling this outer aura of something- something great- encasing her. She hopes it doesn’t show.

In a matter of seven minutes, she steps foot onto a Central Park path. Looking up, she sees the thick canopy of leaves over her, and can hear distantly the sounds of laughing people and dogs scampering across the concrete.  _She knows the spot_ , Shaw reminds herself, bouncing on the balls of her feet.  _She’ll be here._

The last three minutes race by with the speed of a sloth. Agonizing, drawn out seconds slowly creeping into endless, unbearable minutes. Shaw checks the clock for the umpteenth time. Ten minutes have passed.

 _Where is she?_ Shaw thinks with a mixture of agitation and anticipation. _Did Harold call her out? She would have called me to cancel, wouldn’t she?_ The thoughts spill into Shaw’s mind, drowning her thoughts in a waterfall of question.

There is a hand on her shoulder.

“Hey, Sweetie,” a familiar voice coos into Shaw’s ear, mouth so close Shaw can feel the breath on her neck, and has an inner moment of shock. She doesn’t jump or startle, but on the inside she is shaken by the surprise appearance.

“Hey,” Shaw replies shortly, gears spinning hard behind un-telling eyes. “Let me see your phone for a second.” Root cocks her head in curiosity, but hands it over without hesitation. Shaw powers it down swiftly, then does the same to her own.

Handing it back, she says, “Okay, ready?”

“Ready for what?” Root asks, linking her arm in Shaw’s, allowing Shaw to lead her a half-step ahead.

“A walk.”

“A walk?” Root replies skeptically, eyes analyzing Shaw’s expressionless face. “You had me come all the way here, and you shut off my phone… for a  _walk_.”

“Fresh air never  _killed_  anyone,” Shaw mutters defensively, looking away, and Root shoots her a doting smile she doesn’t see.

They walk for a short while, Root enjoying being at Shaw’s side, and Shaw too consumed in her thoughts to notice Root’s pleasure. Taking the paths closest to the edge of the park, they see the sun dip down below the buildings, casting them in silhouette, and then in darkness completely. Small street lights hum to life around them, giving off a warm, yellowish glow in the trees. Shaw, seeing a group of college students up ahead, steers Root onto another path leading into the heart of the park.

Finally, inquisitiveness winning out bliss, Root stops. Shaw is tugged back by Root’s arm, and they come to stand before one another.

“What’s wrong?” Root asks with a sigh, and Shaw instantly feels her chest tighten.

“Why would you think anything’s wrong?” Shaw asks cooly, and Root gives a slight shake of her head, brown hair catching the lamp-light with a golden glow.

“You’ve been acting off since that whole dinner thing.” Shaw gives herself a mental kick for allowing such a thing to show. “If you have something on your mind, you can tell me.” Shaw looks up at her, into her eyes, and wonders what she’s thinking. What terrors Root has in her mind that show such a fear and a concern in her chocolate eyes.

 _That she’s tired of me,_  Root thinks, feeling her heart constrict and her lungs threaten to burst. _But she wouldn’t be so timid to say that, would she? Or has something come up?_  Shaw could be so cryptic, it was a hike in itself to get the slightest details from her.

“Alright, uh, nothing’s  _wrong_ ,” Shaw tells her, swallowing down the jump that comes to her throat with each heavy thump of her heart. Her hand fumbles about like a fish out of water. “I just- there’s something I need to ask you or tell you or- something.” Shaw searches her face, part of her wishing Root knew what was in her mind so she wouldn’t have to say it, and part of her glad that Root doesn’t seem to, wanting it to be a surprise.

 _We’ve been together for a while, and I want you to know how great that’s been,_ Shaw thinks to herself, trying to coax the words from her mouth. They don’t come out so well. “We’ve, you know, been together.”

“…Yeah,” Root says, head tipping forward with brows drawn in confusion. She feels a bubble of laughter in her stomach at Shaw’s stammering state, but nervousness pops it with the sharpness of a needle.

“It’s been… How do  _you_  think it’s been?”  _Come on,_  Shaw seethes to herself, inner war raging behind closed doors.  _Get. In. The. Game._

In the midsts of this inner struggle, she misses the frightened flash in Root’s eyes as her heartbeat takes off like a bat out of Hell. She isn’t sure how to answer. It’s been wonderful, better than she could have ever thought- better than she’d ever believed she’d deserved.  _But can I tell that to her? What if what she’s trying to say is that friendship is better, and here I am gushing out?_  Root sputters and coughs.

“I-it’s- why?”

“Because,” Shaw closes her eyes, taking a steadying breath. When she opens them once more, they are solid. “Because I want you to-”

“Shaw!”

“Ms. Groves!”

The words are spoken at the same time from two different mouths. John Reese and Harold Finch respectively.

They melt out of the tree line, small light rinsing them clean of the darkness, and both men sport equally grave faces. The women turn, and seeing it is truly them, the men share a relieved glance.

“What is it  _now_ ,” Shaw demands, eyes burning into their flesh. Harold’s lip twitches under the heat, but he presses on urgently.

“What happened to your phones? Your ear wigs?” He demands.

“Turned them off,” Shaw replies, and he gives her a detestable glare.

“Good, and while  _we’ve_  been searching for you, others have as well.” He gives the line with a flustered venom, angered beyond belief, but only out of worry.

“What do you mean ‘ _others_ ’?” Shaw asks, annoyed. And not a moment later, she feels a sharp ringing in her right ear. A harsh wind rips a few loose strands of her hair.

“Shaw?” Root’s words are distant and grainy, the ringing too loud and too painful for her to comprehend much else. In a daze, she brings her hand up to her ear. Blood. Sluggishly, she feels around the edges; nothing seems to be hit. But still, a trickling redness surfaces from her inner ear, and she knows something has ruptured her eardrum.

Before her slowed lips can utter the analysis, Root’s hand is in hers, and she is being pulled off into the shadows just behind Harold and John. A moment later, her lip pulls to a wince as she is thrown chest first into the thick bark of a tree, someone pressing up close behind her. A hand comes to her ear, trailing down her neck and then swiping away. Everything has happened in a matter of seconds, but it all seems like one drawn out blur to Shaw, and she forces past the wooziness.

“Are you alright?” Root’s voice is a barely audible whisper in Shaw’s good ear, and she finally emerges from her trance. Swallowing, Shaw shakes her head, ready for action.

“Fine, you?”

“Better than  _you_ ,” Root replies, hand coming once more to Shaw’s ear, this time cupping her palm there. Shaw, already focused on scanning the surrounding area, doesn’t take the time to swat her off.

“There.” At the same time as Shaw says it, they all see it: a hoard of people with suits and guns headed there way.  _Who are they anyway?_

They approach closer, and the blurred lines of shadows give way to a crisp outline of a dozen people, eyes glowing sinisterly as they walk into the lamp light.

John barrels out from his hiding place, firing into the wall of men and women, and they instantly scatter, all eyes in his direction and guns firing that way. But he has already been reclaimed by shadow.

Simultaneously, Root and Shaw emerge, guns drawn, and take to firing. John joins them once more, and- on opposite sides of the trail- weave in and out of the dark to take out their attackers. Some ditch their positions, rushing full-throttle into the woods, ready for hand to hand combat.

“You’ve got to be  _kidding_  me,” Shaw mutters as the first, beefy man approaches.

“What do you mean?” Root asks, shooting down a woman charging their way as Shaw greets the man with a fist. She gives him a hard knee to the ribcage, and with each word she delivers a swift punch to his head.

“I-planned-so-freak-ing-hard,” she gets out between gritted teeth. “And-ev-e-ry-time-some-thing-happens.” The man drops to the ground, and Shaw brushes off her knuckles, breath labored.

“Planned hard for what?” Root calls over to her. She takes aim, fires, but her clips are empty. Throwing the guns down, she rushes head-on with two women wearing tight buns and cold snarls, ready for a fight. Shaw shoots the last of the perpetrators coming their way, then goes to Root’s aid.

“To propose,” Shaw says angrily, peeling a woman away and hitting her hard in the jaw. Her head snaps back and she sways, but doesn’t go down.

“To  _propose_?!” Root asks, stopping mid-swing to look over at Shaw with bewildered eyes. At the last second she sees a fist coming her way and narrowly misses a devastating blow to the nose. She begins to fight back once more, but her mind is no longer with the brawl.

“Yeah,” Shaw replies. “I want to marry you, Root.” The woman gets a hearty swing to Shaw’s chest, and Shaw pounces, eyes livid. “But the world doesn’t seem to want that.” A minute or two- it’s always hard to tell in the heat of a fight- pass, and two women lay on the ground, while two are left standing.

The standing two are Root and Shaw.

Breath coming in short with the strenuous activity, Root pushes a loose strand of her wavy hair behind her ear, stepping over to Shaw. Shaw turns to look at her, hand resting on her already bruising ribs.

“ _I_  want that.”

Shaw doesn’t quite grasp it at first. She stands there a moment, the words slowly finding their way into her mind. Then, her chin juts forward, eyes narrowing in a ’ _Really_?’ fashion, mouth parting to voice the words. But she stops, then draws her head back in and away, brow furrowed in question and lips pulled up quizzically. And then, at last, her eyes widen as the rest of her face becomes serious. Probably the most emotion she’d ever expressed in her life, but she had no mind to realize it.

“Y-you  _do_?” Shaw asks, not really believing what she’s heard. Root is grinning wide, a joy in her glistening eyes, fighting off overwhelmed but happy tears, and forcing her voice to be strong.

But it is too much to ask for both of those things, and- after a second of trying to speak- Root merely gives her head a vigorous nod, wrapping Shaw instantly in a suffocating embrace. Shaw’s eyes are blocked by hair, and her senses by the full presence of Root. With this entire concealment, Shaw allows herself a timid but blissful smile.

Pulling one of her hands away from Root’s waist, she slips it into her pocket. There’s nothing there.

“ _Shit_.”


End file.
